


Wielder of the Sword

by Zippit



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Armstrong family, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zippit/pseuds/Zippit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sword will be hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wielder of the Sword

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I'm completely happy with this but I do love the idea and the backstory I've drawn here. 
> 
> Written for prompt #122 - Sibling Rivalry over at [fma_fic_contest](http://fma-fic-contest.livejournal.com).

The sword rests on the mantel, cradled just above its hilt and at a spot a third of the way in from the tip of the blade, on two stands lined with velvet. Runes etched in the gleaming surface wind their way down the finely honed edge from tip to hilt. Every previous wielder's portrait peers down from the walls of Memorial Hall in the Armstrong estate and every previous wielder has been the first son of the family.

Olivier pulls the edge of her uniform straight as she stares at the sword. Light glints off the polished shine of her uniform buttons and it also reflects off her boots. She wouldn't dare trek mud into her mother's house much less appear anything but pristine when challenging generations of tradition. It's the seventeenth day in March. More importantly it’s also Alex’s seventeenth year. He’s eligible to enlist in the military and she has no doubts he will. He may already have.

She tucks her hat under her arm and strides down the hall into the parlor where the rest of the family has gathered. She clicks her feet together and salutes her Father, staring straight ahead until he tells her to be at ease. Mother sits in one of the two chairs at the head of the table with her hands folded neatly in her lap. She gives Olivier a warm smile as she takes her seat to the right of Father’s chair, her rightful place as eldest child. Amue sits across from her with Catherine beside her. Strongine is to Olivier’s left with Alex on her left. 

Father comes to the table then and looks at them each in turn before his eyes crinkle and he smiles. “My children, I am delighted to have you here before me on yet another March 17th, the day where more legacies from the Armstrong family are passed down.” He walks behind Olivier and squeezes her shoulder then does the same to Strongine while giving a smile to Amue and Catherine. He moves behind Alex’s chair and places both hands on his shoulders. “This is the year where my only son has finally turned seventeen.”

Olivier needs to stop this before Father is too far along. He doesn’t tolerate interruptions when he talks about the Armstrong family. If she doesn’t, there won’t be another time and Alex will already have the sword. She clears her throat and meets her father’s gaze squarely.

“This is highly unlike you, my eldest daughter. You know this is an important day in an important year.” Father frowns at her and she wonders if she’s disappointed him. She purses her lips. She won’t look away and she won’t disgrace Father.

She stands and pushes back from the table falling into parade rest. “Yes, Father, but I have a proposal for you.” She feels the gazes of the rest of her family resting on her but the only gaze she cares about is her father’s. He hasn’t interrupted her yet. His only response is an arched eyebrow. She needs to press her advantage. “I propose the family sword goes to me.”

Gasps resound from all around her but Olivier’s gaze stays locked with her father’s. His word is final on the matter. The rest may interject and voice their opinions but Father will decide like he always has. He must see it. The strongest in the family should take the sword.

“But, sister, tradition says it goes to the eldest male heir.” Alex grips the edge of the table in one of his brawny hands while the other grips the back of his chair as he faces her. “You’re an Armstrong. You know the value of tradition.”

“Yes, Alex, I do and I suggest that tradition be changed.” She tosses her hat onto the table and crosses her arms. “Times change and _we_ must change with them or perish. Don’t you agree, Father?” She locks her gaze with her father’s again.

Father curls a twist of beard between his fingers, eyes moving between Alex and her. He’s considering it. She knows it. “Speak your mind, daughter. Let us hear of your plans before we waste more time.”

Certainty settles into her bones and she lets a smile curl her lips. She flips her hair over her shoulder and shifts her feet until they’re planted shoulder width apart. “I suggest that Alex and I battle for the right to the sword. It’s time an Armstrong woman wielded the sword in her portrait.” She continues at his nod. “The battle will be held on the estate with no alchemy involved. Only simple weapons may be used. Whoever forces the other to concede wins the right to the sword.”

Her eyes travel to Alex and the open emotion she sees disgusts her. Shock, surprise, fear, whatever the combination he should be stronger than to wear it so openly. Father would never leave himself so vulnerable. Even her sisters are more cautious than he is. But Catherine prefers him. Even Amue and Strongine fuss and coddle him. They should be ashamed. That is not the Armstrong way. She did all she could to strengthen him as they grew older but none of it took. “But why, Olivier?”

She meets his blue yes with her own and lifts her chin. “Because you aren’t strong enough.” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a hand reach across the table to squeeze Alex’s. It’s too delicate for Amue’s. It must be Catherine’s. “You may have the Armstrong strength, brother, but you do not have the strength of mettle. Father knows what I mean and you will learn once you join the military.” She hopes Alex will prove her wrong but she doesn’t see him reaching the rank she envisions for herself.

They all jump when Father’s hand smacks the table. “Enough, Olivier. Stop insulting your brother.” He looks at Mother and something is said in a glance she cannot interpret. She wants that for herself, between her and her second in command, one day. It’ll be essential to cut down on wasted time explaining herself and then the hassle of ensuring they carried out her plans to her specifications. “Amue, Strongine, Catherine, prepare the back training ground. That should suffice for this…battle.” He walks to the head of the table and offers his arm to Mother as she rises from her chair. He looks at Olivier. “Some traditions may change but not all. The battle will be at three this afternoon. It will last an hour and then the winner will be determined. Before this day ends, the new wielder of the Armstrong sword will be known. You and Alex may prepare as you see fit until then.”

Father and Mother leave the room and there’s a pause. Three chairs push back and her sisters leave to do as Father bid them. It’s only her and Alex. He rises to his feet then bows to her. “I wish you luck, sister. May the best one win.”

“Good luck to you too, Alex.” She watches him walk away into the depths of the house. Maybe he’ll prove her wrong. If he bests her, she’ll content herself with a hard fought battle. But she won’t settle for anything less. The sword will be won one way or another.


End file.
